The Prince Groom
by Alatar Maia
Summary: In the land of Florin, where Prince Michael reigns, Dean (for now) remains completely unaware that whatever was burgeoning between himself and the farm boy on his family's farm was shortly to make history books...and perhaps even higher than the top ten best love stories of all time. Adapted from Morgenstern's classic tale of True Love and High Adventure.


**I was wildly encouraged to do this by Aria + friends on the livestream earlier, so here goes nothing.**

 **Some bits are paraphrased from the book, but obviously I've changed things around to suit this AU. I've been meaning to do this for a while, and I think I've got the characters figured out pretty well.  
**

 **If you are reading this with knowledge only of Supernatural, I'd absolutely recommend watching/reading the Princess Bride. It's hilarious. If you haven't read/watched the book/movie, DO IT. THEY'RE BOTH GOOD.**

* * *

When Dean was born, the most beautiful person in the world was a French scullery maid named Anette.

The Duke she worked for, of course, did not take long to notice. The Duchess was not far behind in noticing the Duke's noticing Anette, and so of course it was only a matter of time before Anette fell from the top of the list. She was still quite beautiful, but not _as_ beautiful as she had once been - by the standards of the time, of course.

The Duchess's troubles did not end there. She got terrible ulcers trying to fix it all, except ulcers didn't exist then. They existed, technically, but they weren't called ulcers. They were called 'stomach pains', and the usual remedy was distinctly more alcoholic than a few tablets of aspirin (this was before aspirin. This might have even been before penicillin. It was most certainly before men stopped pretending marriage was a horrible burden that shackled them to their wives forever, and they had to do their best to escape when possible).

The year that Dean turned ten, the most beautiful person lived in India, the daughter of a tea merchant. There have only been eleven perfect complexions in India's history, and hers was one of them.

That is, until the pox came around.

When Dean was fifteen, the most beautiful person in the world was again a woman, because women were often judged to standards for this sort of thing, and rarely anyone expected men to be counted when one mentioned the word 'beautiful'. But this particular woman, who was named Adela, eventually began to fret so much over her perfection that she became quite wrinkled.

She was married shortly after that, to a man who had first called her perfect, and gave him merry hell for many years.

Dean, at fifteen, of course knew none of this.

And if he had, he would have thoroughly disdained it. He didn't see how it as possible for someone to care _that_ much about whether they were the third prettiest person in the world, nor how it was possible to even measure that kind of thing. And anyway, what did it matter, for _he_ certainly wasn't on it. He kept his hair short to avoid combing it, he disdained the bits behind his ears, and rarely washed anything else for that matter unless it was unavoidable. Self-care and hygiene were not nearly at the top of his to-do list - as a fact they barely made it at all, and were more of an absentminded note in the margins whenever his mother reminded him.

As a matter of fact, Dean was in the top twenty most beautiful people, but that was really only a matter of potential.

What did make his to-do list was doing what few chores he had, riding his horse (which was technically named Horse, but he had renamed her Impala, disdaining his father's imagination - or rather, lack of), and bossing around the farm boy.

Dean liked doing both. Impala went where he steered her, and obeyed his commands. The farm boy did much of the same, except there was much less physical directing and more spoken commands.

"Farm boy, get me that."

"As you wish."

"Farm boy, make sure my horse is put to stable properly."

"As you wish."

That was all he ever replied to Dean - 'as you wish'. Dean had never heard him say a single other thing. He lived in a small hut - a hovel, really - out near the animals, and according to Dean's mother Mary, kept it very clean. He even read, when he had candles.

"I'll leave him an acre in my will," Dean's father John was fond of saying (this was after acres).

"You'll spoil him," Mary would reply.

"He's worked hard - work like that should be rewarded."

And then, as if in silent agreement not to continue the argument, they would turn to Dean, and complain that he hadn't washed.

 _Impala_ didn't mind if he smelled a bit. Dean couldn't see why they cared so much. It wasn't like it had ever mattered this much before to them (except it had, he just liked to pretend, like everyone who knows they are on the loosing side in an argument, that the other side is being unreasonable).

The farm boy didn't seem to mind, either, not that he ever spent much time around Dean in the first place. The longest amount of time they'd ever spent in each others' presence was when they went to town together, but they inevitably split up - the farm boy to do the shopping, and Dean to pick up a few necessities and to (also inevitably) end up in the middle of a gaggle of village girls.

"Do you need any company?"

"No, I can manage on my own."

"You think you're too good for anybody, don't you, Dean?"

"No, I just don't really need anybody to walk around with me."

Dean usually flirted a bit, but he wasn't really interested in any of them. They knew this, of course, and occasionally one would get quite angry, and the anger would spread to the rest of them. Whenever this happened, the farm body would show up and quickly dispatch them, so quickly Dean had a difficult time telling exactly what he did to get them to leave, no matter how many times he witnessed it.

(This was after jealousy, although at the time Dean had no idea how that pertained to the situation he found himself in the middle of).

He never failed to thank the farm boy, but as usual, "As you wish" was all he ever got in reply.

When Dean was almost seventeen, he was out doing his usual market-going and absolutely failed to notice the man peering out at him from a carriage. This might have been because of the girls, both crowded around the carriage and the few that had already attached themselves to Dean. There were a few boys around the carriage as well, admiring the make or hoping to impress a few girls - though none of them dared get _too_ close.

The man in the carriage, on his own, was not very important. But his son had mentioned Dean to him, in a fit of impatience, as many sons had to their fathers. The important moment was that he was the first _rich_ man to have performed this act, and it was he, whose name is lost to the ages, who eventually mentioned Dean to the Court.

The Court is important, because it was, in theory, ruled by the King (and his second wife, who was by coincidence also named Mary). But in fact, the King was barely hanging on, and his mind was much muddled so that he often woke in the middle of the night, believing it to be midday. He was very old, and much of the Court (not to mention the citizens of Florin) regarded his strangely riddle-like and arbitrary decisions with some bewilderment and more than a little of a kind of uncomfortable feeling.

Florin is, of course, the land the King ruled. It is between where Sweden and Germany would eventually settle (this was before Europe). The King had ruled it for a very long time, and so the events just mentioned were not of much surprise to the various castle residents and citizens.

Prince Michael, the eldest of the King's sons and the only one still acknowledged to actually have a claim to the throne (all his siblings had suffered various accidents or run away to seek their fortunes - princedom or princessdom was not always an enjoyable lifestyle, and the King's children seemed to have a tendency for wildness, except for Michael - so it would seem) was in actuality running things on his father's behalf.

If there had been a Europe, he would have been the most powerful man in it. Even as it was (very much lacking in Europe) nobody messed with him, unless they came from very far away and had never heard of him. And if that was the case, they would have soon regretted it.

The Count was Prince Michael's only confidant, and his name was Zachariah, but nobody used it. He was simply the Count, being the only count in the country. The title had been bestowed upon him by Prince Michael some years previously, at a birthday party (this was after birthday parties).

Naturally, the birthday party was the Countess's.

The Countess Naomi was distinctly younger than the Count, and possessed impeccable taste (this was after taste, but only just, and she was the only one in Florin who had it at the time). All her clothing came from Paris (this was also after Paris), and it was her passion for this that lead her to settle permanently in Paris and run the only salon of international consequence. At the time, however, she was content with her position as the leading hostess of the land, and the single most admired and feared woman in Florinese history.

If she had any faults, her clothes concealed them, and if she was less than traditionally pretty, it was hard to tell after she'd finished applying makeup (this was before glamour, although if it hadn't been for ladies like the Countess it would have never needed to be invented).

In sum, the Count and Countess were Couple of the Week in Florin, and had been for many years. Up until now, at least.

* * *

"Quick - look-"

"What is it?"

"Come see." John jabbed his finger out the window.

Mary hesitated, then put her stew spoon down (this was after stew, but everything comes after stew). "Just tell me."

"Come look!" Dean's parents did not have the best marriage, though they had certainly loved each other when they married.

"You look - you know how to, don't you?"

John muttered something, and then muttered more loudly, "Such magnificence." (This was their twentieth spat of the day - this was after spats - and he was determined to make up for what he'd lost earlier that morning).

Mary put down her spoon again, with considerably more force than was necessary, and joined him at the window.

"Ahhh," she said, a sigh of awe.

Dean glanced up from where he was setting the table. Both his parents, however, blocked the window, and he didn't dare stop - they'd already argued that day over his washing (or lack of) and he didn't want to start another one.

"They must be going to meet Prince Michael somewhere," Mary said.

"Hunting," John said. "That's what the Prince does."

Dean managed to get around the table and sneak a glance, and soon he was gaping too, because the Count and Countess and all their pages and soldiers and servants and courtiers and champions and carriages were passing by the cart track at the front of the farm and _turning to enter._

John made a strangled noise. "Here? Why?"

Mary whirled on him. "Did you forget to pay you taxes?" (This was after taxes, but taxes came even before stew).

"Even if I did, this would be too much for just _that._ " And John gestured to where the grand procession was coming ever closer. "What could he want?"

* * *

"Cows," The Count said, his face shadowed, as he still sat inside the carriage. "I would like to talk to you about your cows."

"My cows?" John was not trembling, but it was more a credit to pure adrenaline and stubbornness than lack of anxiety.

"Yes. I have been thinking of starting a dairy of my own. Your cows are known throughout the land as Florin's finest."

"They are?" This was certainly the first time John had ever heard that. This was because the Count had made it up on the spot. In truth, his cows were terrible. If anyone else in the village had had milk to sell, he would have been out of business in an instant. He was not the best at keeping animals, nor farming, nor at much at all, and how he had managed to sire someone like Dean was still a mystery to him.

Granted, things had improved since the farm boy had come to work for them - no question, he was skilled - but that didn't make his the finest in _all Florin._

Still. You didn't argue with the Count.

"I thought I might pry your secrets from you," the Count said.

"Oh-" John fumbled. "What would you say my secrets are, my dear?" He asked Mary, quite unrepentantly throwing her under the wagon (this was before buses, so the phrase is a little different).

"Oh, there are so many," she said - knowing just as well as John did the quality of their cows.

"You two are childless, are you not?" The Count asked.

"Oh, no, sir," Mary answered.

"Then let me see him," the Count went on, slipping for a moment and forgetting he had asked about children and not sons. "Maybe he will be quicker with his answers than his parents."

"How did-" John began, but the Count made a shushing motion, and not being a stupid man, he shut up.

And then the Count stared, because Dean had come into view.

Understand - as he was at the moment, Dean barely rated the top twenty, and that was on potential alone. And yet, the Count stared.

"The count would like to know the secrets behind our cows' greatness," John said leadingly.

"Ask the farm boy," Dean said. "He takes care of them."

The Countess leaned forward, enough to be partially visible in the window. "And is that the farm boy?"

Dean stared for a moment. What he could see of her dress was so colorful that he was tempted to shield his eyes. She wore a grand necklace. Her lips were painted bright red, nearly a perfect match to her hair, drawn back in an impeccable bun.

"Oh, he's really not-" Mary began, glancing over her shoulder to where the farm boy was visible, working.

"I have seen bare chests before," the Countess said impatiently, and raised her voice. "You there! Farm boy! Come here!"

She snapped her fingers on _here._ The farm boy came.

And when he was close, the Countess left the carriage.

The farm boy bowed, whether to avert his eyes because of the Countess's brilliant dress or shame Dean couldn't guess. He really wasn't wearing a shirt, only boots and torn blue jeans (which were invented considerably earlier than most would expect). His hands were tight by his sides.

"What is your name?"

"Castiel, ma'am."

"Castiel, I have heard you do wonderful things with the cows."

"I just feed them, ma'am."

"Nonsense," the Countess said briskly. "That must be it, that you feed them a specific way. Show me."

"...Show you how I feed the cows?"

"Yes."

"Now?" Castiel sounded a bit helpless, to Dean's ears.

"Absolutely. It is of the utmost importance."

Castiel didn't have much of a choice but to take the Countess's arm. "It is muddy back there," he said. "Your dress-"

"I only wear them once, Castiel. I must see you in action."

* * *

Dean, that night, set the table with more force than was strictly required, and was sent to his room after nearly cracking a plate in half and sending half the utensils skittering across the table, over the edge, and onto the floor.

He flopped onto his bed, determined to sleep (he must be tired, this bad mood would be gone when he woke) and closed his eyes.

The Countess was staring at Castiel.

Dean opened his eyes again, even more irritable. He got up and busied himself with things he didn't usually bother doing before bed, like changing into proper pajamas and washing his face (and even the bits behind his ears). He got back into bed, and took a great deal of time shifting around and pulling the blanket securely around himself.

He closed his eyes.

The Countess was _still_ staring at Castiel!

Dean threw back the covers in agitation and sat up. It didn't make _sense._ You didn't look at someone like that unless you were interested! Why on Earth would someone like the Countess be interested in Castiel? He was only a farm boy! Even if his hair _was_ black as pitch and went everywhere in a very carefully tousled way. Even if his eyes _were_ such a bright blue that many people had wondered if one of his mysteriously dead parents might have been a fairy, or some kind of magician, or perhaps even the King's disgraced miracle man.

And sure, he was a bit tan, and usually quite sweaty, but anyone who spent so much time outside working would look the same, surely! His stomach was no doubt flatter than the Count's, and there was no question that he must be closer to the Countess's age.

None of that could have attracted the Countess's attention, surely. She was so... _refined._ Dean was forced to admit that she had been dazzling, especially to someone who had only ever known a dirty farm and Dean and his parents. Even he had been stunned. How should he have expected Castiel to react?

It must have been his teeth, Dean thought wildly. Castiel did have very nice teeth, especially for a farm boy, though why the Countess should be so taken with teeth was beyond him. Perhaps she was self-conscious about her own.

Dean fell onto his back, staring at the ceiling hopelessly. What could he do? There was certainly nothing keeping Castiel here, other than obligation, and if he was with the Countess even an acre left to him in John's will would not be enough to tempt him to stay! And then he'd leave, and then Dean would have to do everything himself, and, and-

There have been three truly _great_ cases of jealousy up until this point, the first being over a cactus, and Dean's mood that night rated a very close fourth.

* * *

 **Gonna stop here, just because I can, and because it leaves me with a good place to start the next one off.  
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 **Review, please!**


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